


Woke Up Late

by notaruka



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Humor, One Night Stands, One Shot, Romance, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 14:58:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18875521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notaruka/pseuds/notaruka
Summary: “How was the apartment?”She hesitates for the briefest of seconds. “U-Um, yeah!” she squeaks. “It was great. Really good. I had a...a top time.”She would have mentioned the strange man who suddenly showed up out of nowhere, somehow with direct access to the apartment. She would have mentioned him.If she hadn’t also slept with him.





	Woke Up Late

Luke Skywalker’s apartment sits on the fancier side of Canto Bight City.

The side with nicer cars, cleaner streets, more ostentatious greenery. Where every store has a stern-faced security guard posted at the door, a glorified scrambled egg sandwich costs twenty dollars, and perfectly postured, impeccably groomed ladies walk their small, manicured dogs down cement footpaths. Where one would be hard-pressed to spot anyone under the age of forty perusing the shops, or taking a stroll, or habitually tossing the keys to their Rolls-Royce to the nearest valet attendant. Where a minority would find themselves subtly discriminated against unless they sported a sufficiently affluent handbag.

Being on the higher end of an already lofty spectrum of wealth, Skywalker’s apartment is, naturally, a penthouse. Thirty-one floors tall, it boasts its very own lobby, which one with security clearance can ride an express elevator all the way up to, straight from the ground floor. When he’s expecting a particularly formidable visitor - that is, of the few who could be fathomed more formidable than himself - a reception desk of exquisite mahogany is conveniently situated in the centre of the lobby, at which an overpaid receptionist can sip at some complimentary champagne and bask in the overall, well-perfumed atmosphere of a rich man’s abode.

The lobby itself is more lavish than the entirety of any downtown studio apartment - not to mention twice the size. Inspired by eighteenth-century castle decor, ornately designed sconces line the upper quarter of all four walls - a mere accompaniment to the grand chandelier providing the main source of warm-hued lighting to the room. Every few feet of empty perimeter is punctuated by a stylish side table, each with its own tasteful arrangement of heftily priced flowers. Lucrative artwork adorns the walls, and despite being well over a million dollars in value, are the least valuable of Skywalker’s collection, and thus are relegated to the lobby rather than the apartment itself.

And behind it all: the monumental double doors, elegantly embellished with a golden frame and winding, floral patterns carved right into the wood. The true centrepiece of a room already saturated with opulence. The symbolic representation, the quintessence, of Luke Skywalker’s achievement and prosperity.

It is these doubles doors that get kicked down one Sunday afternoon by the dusty heel of a tattered, yellowing Converse sneaker.

And as it hits the floor, tarnishing the glossy floorboards beneath with - possibly for the first time ever - residual traces of Peruvian goat turd, in steps a grinning, glowing, giggling, young woman with it.

Her eyes widen behind circular, gold-framed glasses. She hoists her faded, blue gym bag further up her shoulder, the action hiking her threadbare crop top up a sufficient distance to reveal the underside of her right bra cup. At the sight of the floor-to-ceiling window on the far end of the living room, said gym bag is discarded with a thump and an unbalanced lurch at her feet. A sloppily assembled bun of brunette hair bounces wildly atop her head as she makes a mad dash for it across the room.

“Aw, sweet!” she rejoices in a husky growl of delight, seconds before the entire front of her body, including her face, is pushed up against the glass. Her eyes roam the jagged profile of the iconic Canto Bight skyline, and marvel at the stimulating harshness of the dissonant colours of a diverse city.

No time is wasted as she cartwheels her way deeper into the apartment, her feet narrowly missing a concerning number of fragile decor in the process. She skims her palm along the splendid marble of the kitchen countertops, checks her teeth in the shiny reflection of a polished statue, and shrieks with glee at the grandiosity of the master bedroom. Her mouth remains agape as she pirouettes into the en-suite bathroom, where toasty, heated floors and a temptingly sizeable shower bid her warm welcome. She hardly breaks pace while she strips off her clothing - shoes first, then socks, closely followed by shorts and a crop top. The items are brazenly flung into the air like celebratory graduation caps, and land on the tiles beneath in a random, haphazardly strewn formation.

“It’s Rey Day today,” she murmurs, and flicks the shower on to full water pressure. Her mouth makes the same wonderstruck “O” shape at the sheer force of the instantaneously hot water cascading down from the overhead shower. It’s a striking contrast to the lame dribbles produced by her tiny shower head back at home, which must yield an average of about five drops of cold water per second.

She exits the bathroom in a clean bathrobe, the rich, plush cotton wafting a rosy scent that almost makes her swoon. Her peripheral vision catches the unmistakable shape of a small liquor bottle on display to her left, and she makes a short detour on her way to the living room to seize it in one hand.

Orange rays of evening sun pour in through the main window, casting long, soft shadows across the floorboards and reminding her that she must have spent at least an hour in the bathroom. The visuals are particularly dazzling at this time of day. As she heartily chugs away at the now-open bottle of Chardonnay in her hand, she suddenly remembers that she has a phone, and an Instagram account, and many followers who would be so gloriously jealous of the footage that she could plaster up onto her Story. She sets the wine aside, but makes a note to not forget it, and then pounces onto her gym bag to unfasten it with a zealous tug. Her hands rummage through the mounds of junk she finds within, digging past old candy wrappers and empty water bottles, tossing aside several cases of hoarded lipstick, fingering through a chaotic reserve of crumpled-up dollar bills and dirty nickels.

And then she sees it. Her hands freeze at the very glimpse of it. Black, shiny, and solid. It is not, however, her initial object of pursuit. It is something much longer, much thinner, and much more...phallic.

She sweeps her fingertips over the ribbed silicone of her favourite dildo, and glances up at the view, pondering. “Eh,” she brays with a resigned shrug, and snatches it up in her right hand.

* * *

With one hand to hold up the porn on her phone, and another to graze the dewy slit of her vagina, she finally decides she’s ready for it.

She drains the last few sips of wine from the bottle and shoots her dildo a wry wink, before sliding it up the length of her inner thigh. A satisfied hum rumbles in the back of her throat as she gently parts her vagina lips with its moistened tip, her back arching pleasurably against the base of the leather sofa at the window. Upon the realisation that the porn is getting in the way of the view, she drops her hand and plonks her phone onto the white, velvety rug beneath her bare ass. Serenely, she smiles, drinking in the spectacular sunset as she slides the dildo in and out of her slit.

 _This_ _is_ _it_ , she relishes. _This is where I’ve peaked. Nothing can make this moment any better._

In a way, she is right. She has come a long way from the poor, scraggly street rat pickpocketing for a living down dingy alleyways. And considering her penchant for white wine, aesthetic sunsets, and ribbed dildos, not much can make this moment any better for her.

Certainly not the definitive _clang_ of the elevator outside, signalling the impending arrival of an unexpected guest in the lobby.

She jerks upright and rips the dildo out of herself at alarming speed, grunting at the jarring sensation. “What the fuck?” she hisses in dismay.

Since when was she expecting company?

In times of panic, she tends to go into flight mode. But the “flight” part, here, often refers to her sense of logic - which has a habit of completely hauling ass at the worst possible instance - rather than her entire self. This time is no exception, for some primal instinct in the core of her mind inexplicably prompts her to leap to her feet, kick her phone beneath the sofa, and hurl the dildo across the room. It lands with a light bounce on a coffee table and rolls against the vase of an accompanying lamp.

“Oh my God!” she mouths - mouths, not screams, because she can already hear the thuds of her company’s footsteps rapidly approaching through the lobby outside. With no time to retrieve the dildo and rectify her grave mistake, she elects to cut her losses. In the five seconds that it takes the other guest to reach and then heave open the double doors, she lunges for her bathrobe, shrugs it on, and dives behind the sofa.

From her rather poor vantage point, she cannot discern much of her unwanted company, but the heavy, lumbering thumps of the footsteps indicate to her that it’s a man. Panicked blood rushes to her face as she imagines the worst. What if it’s an intruder? What if it’s a big-time mobster, come to rob Luke Skywalker dry? What if he’ll stop at nothing to ensure that there aren’t any witnesses? What if he decides to _rape_ her on top of all of that?

As her eyes rake over her surroundings for any semblance of a weapon, the intruder suddenly emits a strange noise. It’s somewhere between a sigh of disappointment and a groan of disgust. Then, “What a shithole.”

His voice is deep, rumbling, and laced with disdain.

Suddenly, she isn’t scared anymore. Suddenly, she’s outraged. “Shithole?” she mouths, grimacing in disbelief. In what world could this epitome of luxury be considered a shithole?

She army crawls along the length of the sofa and peeks out at him through the crevice between its right arm and a wooden end table.

He’s but a few feet away, halfway between the door and the sofa. As he merely stands there, absently scrolling through something on his phone, her eyes slowly trail up the full height of his body. Doc Martens - new, shiny, noticeably large - followed by skinny Levi’s wrapped snugly around long, sturdy legs. Next, an impressive torso under a tight, black t-shirt - big, brawny, supplemented by strong, muscular arms. Atop all that veritable height, an arguably handsome face, partnered with a neatly-trimmed goatee and a black, wavy mane of lustrous hair. She calls it arguable because she can’t really tell how good-looking his face is, for by the time her gaze had reached his neck, her body had already decided it would gladly climb him like a tree.

The light crease between his eyebrows smooths over when his phone buzzes in his hand. “Hey, I was just about to call you,” he answers. Somehow, he takes the call as his cue to saunter into the bedroom and explore the rest of the dwelling, turning his back to her general direction. “Yeah, I just arrived.”

Her window is now. She bares her teeth as she straightens into a low crouch and surveys her surroundings, improvising a slapdash plan of escape. The doors. He left them wide open. She could race through them right now and never look back. She could leave at this very moment and be done with this predicament forever.

But the stranger has ventured so far to the other side of the apartment that she can hardly even hear his voice anymore. And Rey has always been a risk-taker.

There’s still the matter of her stuff. Her clothes are currently splayed along the heated bathroom floor, so she can safely say bye-bye to that. Her gym bag, however, chock-full of admittedly most of her belongings, was sitting quite close to the doors prior to the stranger’s arrival, and so was conveniently pushed out of view when he entered the apartment. It is currently resting up against the hinge of the right door, easily retrievable on her way out to freedom.

And her dildo. Her sweet, sweet dildo. Lying there in plain sight on top of the coffee table. She can’t just leave it behind. They’ve been through too much together. And if they both make it out of here alive today, their bond will only be stronger because of it.

So she makes her decision. Heart over mind. She bolts for the dildo.

Unfortunately, she isn’t particularly concerned with where her feet are landing in her haste to get there, and her big toe knocks against the empty Chardonnay bottle that she’d left on the rug and completely forgotten about. The interruption frightens her, halting her in her tracks, but thankfully elicits minimal noise and does not result in slapstick disaster.

“...didn’t even know they had those over here.”

Her heart stops. His voice. It’s getting closer.

He’s coming back.

She shoots a final, yearning look at her dildo before retreating in clumsy, backward stumbles. Her hair bun bounces to and fro as she whips her head around like a madman in search of a better hiding spot. She locates a closet to her right, on the far end of the living room, and quickly closes in on her new residence.

The stranger re-enters the room just as she wrenches the closet door shut. She watches him snort into his phone through the horizontal slats of the bifold door.

“Probably just gonna drink myself to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he says, clicking his heels against the floorboards as he ambles over to the sofa. “Alright. See ya.”

Now with the opportunity to really study him from a safe distance, she realises that she’s not very fond of this guy. Way-too-fancy hair, pretentious clothing (his black t-shirt has a Ralph Lauren logo on it), and literally called this holy sanctuary of paradise and luxury a shithole. Everything about him screams trust fund baby. She’s more sure now than ever that if anyone is going to get robbed here tonight, it‘s going to be him.

Narrowed eyes emanate waves of displeasure at him as she watches him haul his designer duffel bag onto the sofa and rifle through it. _Look at him_ , she inwardly gripes. _What a douchebag. Probably fishing through his leather Gucci duffel bag for his limited edition gold comb, or fancy monocle made of pure jade, or scented deluxe lube that he can use to jack off into a wad of hundreds. Probably hunting for that old-timey type of tobacco - the type that you need to stuff into one of those baroque pipes to smoke, or a...a..._

_A bong?_

She almost presses her bare eyeball right up against the slat.

The stranger whistles a jovial tune as he plucks out a glass bong from the bottom of his duffel bag, along with a small stash of what is surely marijuana in sealed plastic. He then proceeds to leap backwards onto the sofa, sprawl his entire body across it, and, after a few expert procedures, smoke up some well-earned weed.

 _Unbelievable. That’s supposed to be me,_ she thinks bitterly. While she had, only minutes ago, been the one stretched out in front of the view, indulging in her favourite activities and bathing in the last few rays of the day’s glorious sunlight, now it’s this rando, completely taking up her spot after rudely barging in, unannounced, out of seemingly nowhere.

It was supposed to be Rey Day today.

A sound akin to a toolbox full of nails being passed through a wood chipper wrenches her out of her internal bellyaching. She claps a hand over her own mouth. She’d recognise that tempo anywhere.

It’s her phone. She left it under the sofa. It’s vibrating very loudly against the floorboards beneath - probably caught in an awkward position between the floor and one of the sofa legs - and announcing to the entire apartment that not only does she have a call, but that it exists.

The stranger releases a few surprised coughs, smoke sputtering out from his lips in erratic bursts. “What...the fuck?” he croaks out between wheezes. Still coughing noisily into one hand, he sets the bong aside and commences an investigation into the source of the racket.

“Oh, no, no, no,” she mouths as she watches him find it very quickly. “No, no, no, no, no.”

He’s on his knees now, temple pressed to the floorboards as he peers under the sofa.

“Please don’t reach it. Please don’t reach it.”

If only his sinewy arms weren’t so long. He extracts the phone with unanticipated ease, and clambers back up onto the sofa to inspect it. “Poe?” he reads aloud.

She blanches.

_Oh God. It’s Poe._

“Don’t do it,” she whispers. “Don’t pick it up.”

But she can see the gears already turning in his head, a curious frown etched into his features. _Oh no. Oh no. He’s gonna do it. He’s gonna pick it up._

Her love for dick propels her out of the closet. “Don’t!” she shouts, charging at him from the other side of the room.

“What the f-!” he exclaims in fright. Her sudden emergence startles him right off the sofa. “Who the hell are you?”

“Don’t answer that call!” she beseeches. “I’ve been dying to sleep with that guy for months! Only recently has he even begun to convey anything remotely classifiable as interest in me, and I’ve been pulling out my best moves to keep that very dim flame alive! If he hears another guy picking up my phone, my chances are _over_!”

“Oh my God, fine!” he yells back, and hurls her phone onto the sofa. “I don’t care! Tell me who you are!”

“I’m Rey! I’m... I’m staying here!”

“What?”

“I’m staying here tonight!”

It is at her reiteration that an expression of comprehension suddenly flits across his face. His demeanour shifts into newfound calm. “Ohhh,” he exhales, nodding in comprehension. “Right. I see.”

She narrows her eyes at him and cocks her head to the side.

“Well, you can’t stay here tonight,” he says.

“What?”

“You’ll have to squat somewhere else.”

Rey jerks back in affronted dismay. “Excuse me? I am not a squatter!”

“Eh, well, you kind of are,” he retorts.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You see, this is my apartment,” he tells her, gesturing a wide, patronising circle in front of himself, “and you are not supposed to be here.”

“I am supposed to be here!” she argues. “My boss sent me here! This is my boss’ apartment!”

It’s his turn to narrow his eyes at her in suspicion. “Wait,” he murmurs, “is this a prank?”

“What?” she barks.

“Did Hux send you here?”

“Who’s Hux?”

“He did, didn’t he?” He sneers and shakes his head. “That little weasel. He’d totally pull something like this on me. Try and throw me off.”

“What are you talking about?” she demands.

“Look, how much does he owe you? I’ll pay you twice as much to leave right now.” He fishes his wallet out of his back pocket and casually flicks through the bills.

“Jesus. Now you think I’m a prostitute?” she splutters. “Are you kidding me? How many insults are we gonna go through tonight before you believe I’m telling the truth?”

“Come on,” he scoffs. “Really? You’re not a prostitute.”

“No!” she roars.

“A pretty girl shows up in my apartment in nothing but a bathrobe and I’m not supposed to think she’s a whore?”

She blinks at him in surprise. In typical Rey fashion, her mind decides to fixate on the entirely wrong part of his statement. “You... You think I’m pretty?”

The abrupt tonal shift takes him aback. Did she really just ask him that? He instinctively staggers backward a few steps, suddenly at a loss for what to say, before opting to simply avert his eyes from her probing stare.

And in his nervous attempt to do so, he notices the unequivocally phallic shape of the black dildo perched on the coffee table to his left. He does a double-take, scowls, and directs a finger at it. “Is that a dildo?”

Rey gulps and stares back at him when he sets his inquisitive gaze on her.

 _Oh_   _God, think_ , she urges herself. _Think, Rey, think. For once, don’t go into panic mode, and make your next. Move. Count._

Mechanically, her right hand skims up the front of her abdomen and lightly latches onto the string of her bathrobe.

_Oh no. No. What are you doing?_

She begins to tug on it slowly, and the robe gradually loosens around her.

_Don’t do it, bitch. Don’t you dare. Don’t you even try-_

She unknots the string around her waist with a single yank of her fingers.

His eyes fall to her naked body as her robe plummets to her feet.

* * *

About ten minutes elapse before Rey finds herself encased in the rugged, mighty arms of a man she’s only just met, sandwiched between his burly torso and the silken sheets of a king-sized mattress. Her fingernails create pink, tender indentations on the taut muscle of his well-built shoulders, her rib cage arcs against the bare skin of his abdomen, and her hips rise in tandem with his powerful thrust.

With one hand braced against the headboard and the other on her hip, he plunges himself into her at a strong, steady rhythm. The way he fucks her is almost bullish, his movements rife with dominance and his demeanour commanding and aggressive. He fucks like someone with a body like that should fuck. And while she’s been able to, in the past, draw at least tenuous comparisons between her various sexual partners, the rawness of his style is something completely novel to her; this she ascertains as her hands and eyes rove over the undulating terrain of his muscular physique.

He doesn’t notice her staring, too engrossed in what’s happening below the neck to really even care, and lowers his arms to her thighs to prop her ankles over his shoulders.

“ _Ugh_!” she loudly moans, both at the newfound pleasure of a different angle and the sudden wave of self-realisation that slaps her in the face. “Why do I always do this?” she laments in a croaky grumble. “Why do I always use sex as a means to solve my problems?”

His tempo falters to a stop, and he pauses to contemplate her philosophical question. “Well, what’s wrong with that?” he returns.

She raises her eyes to the ceiling in thought. “Yeah,” she chirps after a brief silence. “I guess you’re right.”

He resumes thrusting.

* * *

She’s on her knees now, the grasp of both hands secured over the headboard, breasts dynamically bobbing with every forceful impact of his hips against her buttocks. She feels a bit like a rag doll with the rough way he handles her, continuously pounding into her with such raw, reckless power; her limbs feel weak and wobbly in comparison, as if totally limp or devoid of muscle.

His hand nimbly skates up her naked back and buries itself into her hair. She cries out in hoarse, shuddering pain when he latches onto it with assertive fingers and yanks her head back to the ceiling.

“Ow!” she yelps through harsh, gritted teeth.

At her verbal interjection, his grip immediately slackens. “Shit. Sorry.”

“No, no,” she pants, twisting around to regard him with widened, assuring eyes. “I like it.”

“Oh,” he bleats. Tentatively, he raises a hand to her neck and reclaims his grasp on her hair.

She smiles through a grimace. 

* * *

There’s a leather ottoman at the end of the bed, because, well, why wouldn’t there be? Every rich person has one. Rey’s knees are digging into it, on either side of her lover’s hips, as she lithely bounces up and down the length of his shaft.

Her patterns are erratic - she’s never been great at squats - but her pace is quick, fervent, and her movements skilful and passionate. She forces his lips up from her breasts and onto her mouth, shamelessly tonguing and biting at every contour of his lower face.

“Oh, fuck,” he grunts, the exclamation muffled against her slick chin. “Fuck. I’m gonna-”

She interrupts him with a hand flat against his face. “No.”

He’s frozen for a moment, bewildered by the brusqueness of the action. “What?” he murmurs into her palm.

“Shhh,” she hushes, all the while maintaining her even tempo. Her hand slinks down his nose and wraps itself over his mouth. “It’s Rey Day today.”

He peels her fingers from his face. “What? Did you just say, ‘It’s Rey Day’?”

She answers him with another gentle shush. “It’s Rey Day,” she repeats. “Nobody cums until I cum.”

“Well, I don’t think I have a choice.”

“In that case...”

She stands up so suddenly that she almost pulls him with her while removing herself. The abruptness of the extraction winds him.

“Wh-?” he splutters. He gapes after her as she meanders away.

Well, that’s just cruel. 

* * *

“Oh my God,” she moans - a deep, heady, guttural moan. “ _Yes_.”

He’s violently pumping into her like an uncontrollable jackhammer. They’re flat on the bedroom carpet now, butt-naked and intertwined. Her pleasurable cries are like a torrent of water, sweeping over him and filling the air.

“Oh my God, you are so sexy,” she whimpers into his ear.

Despite himself, a self-satisfied smirk manifests on his lips.

“Oh, God, your face. Your eyes. Your hair,” she continues.

His dick hardens with every compliment.

“You are so fucking sexy. I can’t stop looking at you.”

His ego is about thirty times its usual size when he suddenly realises that she hasn’t, in fact, been looking at him at all. Her neck, he notes, is fully upright, her chin propped securely on his left shoulder as she clutches him by the biceps to hoist her own weight upward. He twists around to peer over his own shoulder, and is alarmed to find his bare ass staring back at him. “Are you...talking to yourself in the mirror?”

“Oh, God, I’m cumming!” she declares, jubilantly ignoring him. She winds all four limbs around his torso and tosses her head back to scream.

* * *

The post-coital stage tends to be awkward. Even for a well-seasoned couple, the act of gingerly mopping up one’s liquid symbol of carnal shame and tugging back on one’s clothes is a rather bashful task, especially when so closely juxtaposed to the lewd, animalistic fornication that had taken place only moments prior.

But for Rey and her new friend, the experience is quite to the contrary.

She munches on a bowl of cereal, cross-legged on the edge of the living room sofa, and ignores him as he blatantly disparages her from his spot against the window.

“Who eats cereal at eight o’clock in the evening? Who raised you?” he yammers off at her.

“Nobody,” she says, and the truthful answer comes out too casually to be taken seriously.

“You’re really weird, you know that?” he tells her, as if it would be a fresh revelation.

“ _You’re_ really weird,” she returns. “Coming in here and ruining a stranger’s good time with your presence.”

“Ruining your good time? Pretty sure your time only got better when I arrived.”

“You flatter yourself,” she scoffs, and he laughs at the incredulous wince she supplies him. “Whatever. I’d rather be weird than normal.”

“That’s true,” he agrees. “Normal people are terrible.”

“Terrible,” she concurs. “So boring. All they talk about is themselves.”

“And sports.”

“And other people.”

“And work.”

“And their kids.”

“Yuck.”

“I know.”

“Though, to be fair,” he mentions, “weirdness is all relative.”

Her eyes almost roll to the back of her head. “Ugh!”

“What?”

“You’re one of those people,” she says. “Those ‘enlightened’, existential people. ‘Oh, everything’s relative. Nothing matters. We’re all gonna die anyway.’”

“Yes, I am,” he proclaims. “And what’s wrong with that?”

“You think you’re better than everyone.”

He grins. “That’s because I am.”

“No, you’re not. Everyone knows what you know. The difference is that we choose to not be a pompous dickhead about it.”

“Clearly, you haven’t been through enough adversity to really understand it, then,” he says in dismissal.

 _Oh, you have no idea how wrong you are,_ she internally rebuts. But at the reluctance to throw herself yet another pathetic pity party to an absolute stranger, Rey merely shrugs her shoulders and shovels a heaped spoon of cereal into her mouth.

In the void of conversation she leaves behind, he takes the opportunity to fling another playful jab at her. “Can’t believe I’m being judged by someone who talks to themselves in a mirror during sex and eats cereal at night.”

“Look,” she snaps, admittedly testy after his prior comment, “I don’t judge you for spending fifty dollars on a plain t-shirt with a horse logo on it, so don’t judge me for deciding to eat breakfast food after midday.”

“If you hate it so much, why are you wearing it?”

She glances down at the black cotton draped over her slender frame. “So I can spill milk on it.” She need only hold up her spoon before he comes lunging at her like a panther in heat.

“Don’t!” he hisses.

She snickers wildly at his desperation. “Wow!” she howls. “You are _so_ pathetic!”

“Put the bowl down,” he demands. “Put it down. Stop sloshing it around, you’re gonna spill it all over my sofa.”

“Your sofa?” she echoes. “That’s rich. That’s still the story you’re going with?”

“Oh, and what about you, Miss I’m-Not-A-Whore?”

“I’m not a whore.”

He flashes an arrogant grin at her. “Alright. You’re not.”

She returns it with a pleased smirk of her own. “Thank you.”

“Paid sex is never that good, anyway.”

She raises the bowl to her face and gobbles down the last few bites of her cereal before murmuring, “Eh. I’ve had better.” When she drops the bowl, she’s greeted with an affronted glare.

His inquiry is calm: “What?”

She darts a fleeting gaze to the side, and then shrugs. “I mean, yeah, it was good, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve had better,” she says, and crawls over to set her bowl down onto the nearest flat surface - the left arm of the sofa, it appears.

It’s only when she straightens and meets the sweltering-hot fury in his seething eyes that she realises her mistake.

* * *

The marble of the kitchen counter is cold. It shocks her as she slams her naked back against it, in the same way it had startled her when her bare buttocks were first hoisted up onto its tall surface. Her hair spills out like rushing water across its width, creating an angelic arc around her flushed, panting face.

The hot, raspy moans that spew from her swollen lips could almost be confounded with pained keens of sorrow. She herself can hardly make the distinction, for the line between such intense pleasure and intense pain is so pencil-thin. His tongue swirling languid, circular patterns over her clitoris makes her clench her fists and curl her toes in the same way that a knife carving a line down her stomach would. His fingers, so long, dexterous, and deft as they slither in and out of her vulva, induce the same puckered wince from her as a slash across her back from a leather whip. The tensing of her limbs, the arch of her spine, the feverish, eager desperation for this to be over. It’s all the same. She’s not sure if this is pleasure or torture.

So she can only whimper out a feeble, “Please.”

She can feel him smile against her vagina. “Please what?” he teases.

She lifts her head to see him. “Please. Just make me cum. Go faster.”

“Hmmm. I don’t know,” he says, meeting her eye. “I’m afraid it won’t be that good for you.”

She groans and lets her head fall back against the marble with a reckless thump. “I never said it wasn’t good. Just not the best.”

“And now?”

Her laboured breathing is punctuated by a slow gulp of defeat. “Yes. It is.”

He surprises her by yanking her up by the neck to meet him and closing his hot mouth over hers. It’s as if he’s been waiting, all this time, to hear those words before conceding to his own desire.

A new kind of euphoria sweeps over her when he suddenly inserts himself into her and strenuously fucks her against the counter. Beyond her subconscious, she would never admit it, but it’s a sense of release she’s never quite felt before - not with anyone, not even with herself. Her whole body had been waiting, aching for him to enter her since his lips had first kissed her vagina, and having it so abruptly endowed upon her feels like unimaginable bliss.

This time, when the orgasm wracks her body, her eyes are set on his.

* * *

It’s a lot colder at night, and neither of them can figure out how the complicated heating system in this place works. So he drapes a woollen blanket over their naked bodies as they lounge together on the sofa, skin against sticky skin and arms and legs intertwined.

Her head rests cosily between his pecs, and she watches the goosebumps on the skin of her arm, strewn over his muscular abdomen, appear and reappear with the rise and fall of his chest. They peacefully enjoy the view of the twinkling city lights, passing his bong back and forth at regular intervals between themselves.

“Do you ever think about, like...” Rey begins, but does not continue. “Nah. Never mind.”

“What?” he presses.

“I’m just very aware that I’m going to sound like a stereotypical stoner when I say it.”

The light exhale of his chuckle gently flutters a tendril of hair across her forehead. “Say it,” he coaxes.

She gives a sigh of concession. “Do you ever think about death?”

A puff of smoke furls from his lips before he answers. “Yeah. You know I do. Pompous, existential dickhead, remember?”

“I think about it a lot,” she confesses. “Surprisingly, not that much when I was younger, back when it was a much more realistic threat.” She pauses there, waiting for him to nag her for more details, as many have done in the past. When, to her pleasant surprise, he doesn’t, she continues, “But I think about it a lot now. Maybe because I have more time to. Or maybe because I have more to lose.”

He’s quiet as he hands her the bong and ponders her reflection. “I’ve thought about it ever since I was a kid. Once I stopped believing in an afterlife.”

“You’re not religious?”

“No.”

“Me neither,” she says. “I wish I was.”

“Yeah. Same. It makes death seem-”

“Less scary,” she finishes. “Like a next chapter, rather than-”

“The end.”

“Yeah. And more in your control. Kind of like a video game. What you do now affects what happens when you level up.”

“I guess we just gotta make the best of our time here.”

“Yeah. And be the best versions of ourselves.”

He scoffs. “That one’s easier said than done.”

“Why?”

“Can you honestly say you’re currently the best version of yourself?”

“Yeah. Why do you think I cum to myself in the mirror?”

That elicits a snort of amusement from him.

“What don’t you like about yourself?” she questions.

“Hmmm,” he ruminates. “I’m angry. Like, all the time.”

“Anger issues?”

“Yeah. I lash out at people a lot. It’s unfair on them, and will probably give me an aneurysm one day.”

“Maybe you’re so angry because your life is just shit.”

Ironically, that doesn’t anger him. He just laughs and admits, “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

Her eyes are dazed with thought as she absently raises the bong to her lips and takes a deep drag.

“Whoa,” he murmurs when she doesn’t break her inhale. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa!”

It’s too much. She coughs and hacks into the blanket when her lungs protest the overload, her petite form convulsing against his torso.

He cackles at her. “This is strong stuff!” he exclaims. “You can’t be going at it like that.”

Her wet, sickly coughs persist for a considerable number of following seconds. “I always do this,” she wheezes. “I always overdo shit when I enjoy it. I have twenty bags of matcha powder at home.”

He watches her regain her bearings. There's a softness in his eyes. “Nothing wrong with that. Enjoy your life. It’s not gonna last.”

She nods in agreement. “Yes. You’re right.”

“Do what you want.”

After dabbing away the last few salty tears from her eyes, her gaze lands on his erect penis, now fully exposed from the blanket after she had writhed and twisted it away in her choking fit.

He appears slightly timid when she looks up at him in question.

“Let me handle that,” she says.

He catches his breath when she wraps her lips around his cock.

* * *

Rey watches the residual semen on her chest mingle with the water as it rushes down her body from the shower head. She follows its journey all the way down to the drain, from her breasts, to her stomach, to her legs. Her hand skims over her own rubbery torso, wiping the slick fluid from her skin.

“Argh,” she groans. “Crusty.” She shudders at the chill in the air, and adjusts the water temperature with a flick of her hand. “Hey!” she calls.

Her lover’s reply from the bedroom is a tired grumble. “What?”

“Can you hand me a towel?”

There’s a pause.

“Uh, I’m not your boyfriend. Pretty sure you can get your own towel,” he retorts.

A displeased scowl etches itself onto her face. “It’s called being decent!”

“It’s called walking five steps to the cupboard and getting it yourself.”

“I hate getting out of the shower sopping wet!” she whines. “Come on! Please?”

Silence.

“Are you ignoring me?” she cries. “You can’t ignore me, alright? I’ll make car alarm sounds all night if I have to!”

No response.

“You asked for it!” She takes a deep inhale, ready to emulate the first raucous note. Only a split second’s worth of a siren noise escapes before the shower curtain is suddenly wrenched aside, frightening her.

He regards her with a very unimpressed expression as he holds out a towel. “You are so spoilt.”

A righteous heat flares in her chest. “I’m not. That’s not true.” She reaches for the towel, but he pulls it out of range.

“Say please,” he commands, face now alight with amusement.

“I already did.” She makes to grab it again and fails.

“Say it again.”

“No.”

“Why? It’s just manners.”

“Because you’re being an asshole, and you don’t deserve it.”

“How am I being an asshole? I brought you your towel.”

“Give it!” she growls.

“Ask nicely.”

His mischievous smirk enrages her. “No!”

“Are you mad at me or something?”

“No, I just hate you! Give it to me!” With an animalistic roar, she lunges at him, and her fingers finally catch the cotton.

But he does not yield his own grasp, flippantly tugging it back and forth like he’s playing with a dog.

“Stop!” she protests. “Stop it! You are being so annoyi-”

He jerks her into him and cuts her off with a kiss.

At first she is resistant, the furious lava inside her still churning. But with every persistent stroke of his lips, the angry heat wanes, and a different heat replaces it.

As he steps into the shower and joins her under its downpour, the towel is flung aside, landing long-forgotten onto the heated tiles beneath.

* * *

“What time is it?” Rey wonders, barely intelligible through a yawn. She rubs her face against the pillow under her head, unknowingly staining it with smudges of black eyeliner in the process.

He smiles at her, half-open eyes warm with affection. “Why does it matter?”

She stretches indulgently against the silk sheets. “I’m supposed to be somewhere early tomorrow.”

“So am I,” he says, and reaches a hand to brush a few strands of stray hair from her face.

She smiles back, subconsciously enjoying the simple contact. “You know what I love?” She extends her own hand to caress a couple fingers down his cheek.

“What?”

“I feel like I know you, even though I don’t know anything about you,” she observes. “Does that make sense?”

The smile on his lips widens, but he masks it with her hand. He gently closes his fingers over it and kisses her on the knuckles. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

Her dopey grin is enough to take his breath away. With each passing second, the fiery spark of endearment within him flares. How did he ever stumble upon this girl?

“Like,” she goes on, “I don’t even know your name. Or where you come from. Or what you do for a living, or who your parents are. But I know exactly what kind of person you are.”

“Well, firstly,” he begins, “my name is-”

“No,” she interjects, silencing him with a finger to his lips. “No, don’t tell me. This is perfect.” When it’s clear that he won’t say anything further - to instead frown at her in stunned confusion - she drops her hand. “It’s like the perfect one-night-stand.”

He swallows down his heart when it makes to leap right out of his throat. “One-night-stand?” he echoes, the slightest of tremors in his voice.

“Yeah,” she replies. “Don’t you think? Fulfilling in every conceivable way, but ultimately holds no bearing whatsoever on the future.” In his subsequent silence, a prospect hits her, and she lifts her head from the pillow in alarm. “This is a one-night-stand, right?”

“Of course,” he blurts automatically. He conceals his latent disappointment with a reassuring smile.

“Good. Phew. Glad to know we’re on the same page,” she sighs with relief, dropping her head back. “Hopefully, I don’t remember any of this tomorrow morning, anyway. I’m hella drunk.”

He rolls onto his back and casts her a sidelong glance. “You know, normally I don’t let my one-night-stands stay over.”

A soft buzz to his left steals his attention, and he rolls over to peer down at his phone on the nightstand. It’s a text from his uncle. “Remember to fly to CB for your meeting tomorrow,” it reads. An instinctive groan of vexation bubbles up in his chest, but he suppresses it.

After all, no need to trouble a one-night-stand with his problems.

“Don’t worry about me,” she tells him. “I’ll be out of your hair first thing in the morning. You won’t even know I was here.”

“Great,” he mumbles, and taps out a passive-aggressive reply. As his thumb hits send, a random thought occurs to him. “Poe. Poe. Hey, when you said Poe, did you mean Poe Dameron? Cos that dude’s super ga-”

He turns to find her fast asleep, her lips parted and her cheek squashed up against her pillow. A small smile upturns the corner of his mouth at the sight. She’s cute, there’s no denying that.

He resigns himself to the fact that he’ll probably never see her again as he turns back over to his side of the bed. It’ll most likely be for the best. _Maybe in another universe,_  he allows himself. _Another_ _lifetime_.

That’s as far as he’s willing to admit.

* * *

Rey always knows when she’s slept in. Unfortunately, however, by nature, that requires the element of retrospect.

When she awakens the next morning, feeling just a smidgeon too well-rested, her fear is confirmed by the big, white numbers on her phone when she flips it over on the nightstand.

Her meeting is in ten minutes.

“Shit!” she hisses. The cuss is hushed, just under her breath, so as to not stir the slumbering beast beside her. She clambers out of bed and sprints on her tiptoes into the en-suite, where her clothes have been warming on the bathroom tiles since her first shower yesterday afternoon. They’re a crumpled bundle in her arms when she re-emerges, and she cusses again when a sock tumbles out on her way out of the bedroom. As she stoops down to retrieve it, the action gives her momentary pause to appraise the man she’s leaving behind. She stares at him as she straightens, studying the tranquility of his unconscious expression.

She was wrong. She wasn’t that drunk. She remembers everything.

Her phone buzzes in her hand, startling her. It’s from Luke. “Hey Rey, I’m in the SE lobby right now at the purple chairs. No rush,” he says.

There’s no time. She’ll have to deal with this later.

With one final, fleeting look at the man in the bed, she exits the room.

* * *

“Purple chairs?” Rey mutters to herself. Her eyes rake over her surroundings. “What the fuck? I don’t see purple anywhere. Shit. Do I have the wrong building?” She scurries up to the nearest suit. “Is this Skywalker Enterprises?”

The grey-haired man regards her with dismayed offence. “I don’t work here,” he grumbles, not even breaking stride.

She glowers after him. “Then why are you even here?” she spits. “Sheesh.”

“Rey!”

She spins at least two circles before identifying the source of his voice. “Luke!” she reciprocates when she finally does.

Luke Skywalker’s reputation precedes him. Being such a powerful, successful, and influential figure while simultaneously maintaining such a private, secretive, and off-the-radar lifestyle, this is bound to be the case. Most who’ve heard of Luke may not even know what he looks like. They may picture a slick, stoic, well-groomed man in a suit, greying but handsome, stern but dignified. They may expect that someone so wealthy might even be at least vaguely elitist or posh, much in keeping with the attitudes of the beau monde of upper-society Canto Bight.

In reality, Luke is just a scruffy, old man.

Rey gasps for breath when he embraces her in an airtight hug. “So good to see you!” he exclaims. “Sorry about that. I guess those chairs are a bit more...bluish than purplish. How was the flight? Did you get in okay?”

“Oh. Luke,” she says, pulling an extremely satisfied grin and gesturing an OK with her hand. “It. Was. Amazing. I don’t know how I’ll ever fly coach again.”

“And the apartment?”

She hesitates for the briefest of seconds. “U-Um, yeah!” she squeaks. “It was great. Good. Really good. It was beautiful. Had a...a top time.”

She would have mentioned the strange man who suddenly showed up out of nowhere and somehow had direct access to the entire penthouse. She would have mentioned him.

If she hadn’t also slept with him.

“That’s good to hear,” he chuckles. “Yeah. I know it’s a bit over-the-top. I don’t stay there myself very often. I mostly use it for conducting lucrative business deals. You know the...the type of people around here.” He pauses with a head shake and a displeased crinkle of his nose. “They like that sort of stuff. It intimidates them. And they like being intimidated. Makes ‘em feel something. Being wealthy, you know, numbs you to everything.”

Rey merely nods in faux understanding. In truth, she really hasn’t a clue how rich people think, and probably never will.

“Anyway,” Luke chirps, clapping his hands together, “my apologies. I’m afraid Ben is going to be late.”

“Your nephew? Ben Solo?” Rey clarifies.

“Yes. As I mentioned over the phone, you will be working under him for this project. Apologies, though, for his tardiness. He’s...” Another pause for a grimace and a shake of the head. “He’s quite a maverick, that one. Likes to do things his own way. I reminded him to fly in for this meeting last night, but all I got was a snarky retort in response. I hope it means he’s coming, though.”

Rey’s mouth twitches in amusement. “Seems like you two have a...contentious relationship.”

“Oh, it used to be much worse, trust me,” Luke reveals with a rumbly laugh. “Our relationship has actually never been better. Of course, there is room for improvement. The apartment you bunked in, last night, actually - I’m handing it to him. Out of goodwill.”

It’s like the old man has just punched her directly in the stomach. Hot blood rushes up her neck, warming her ears with a mortified heat.

The memory of their conversation comes hurtling back to her like a slap in the face.

“ _You see, this is my apartment_ ,” he’d told her, “ _and you are not supposed to be here_.”

“Actually, come to think of it,” Luke says, “he might have flown in last night and tried to get in. I did forget to tell him you’d be there. But then again, you would’ve already run into him, wouldn’t you?” He gives her a good-natured pat on the back, utterly oblivious to the inner tempest raging within her.

 _I have to run_ , she inwardly decides. _I have to get out of here. Think of an excuse. Anything. Tell him I have diarrhoea. Tell him I need to go ass-blast into a toilet and go home._

But before her flight mode can fully kick in and drive her next move, Luke interrupts her with a jolly, “Ah, there he is!”

Rey freezes. Luke is waving to someone behind her back, and she’s much too scared to turn around and confirm that it’s who she thinks it is. She can hear his footsteps - those heavy, familiar footsteps - thumping toward them across the swarming lobby, the otherwise quiet sound cutting right through the dull murmur of the busy crowd.

“Ben! How’s it going, my boy?” Luke greets him.

“The Falcon was a piece of sputtering junk, as usual,” is his nephew’s casual reply.

That voice. There’s no doubt about it now.

“This kid,” Luke chuckles as he nudges a paralysed Rey with his elbow. “He gets his own private jet and he still complains about it.”

Rey feigns a courteous smile.

It’s too late now. She has to turn around. She has to face this - face him. It’s been much too long, and if she doesn’t turn at this exact moment, not only will the reveal be exponentially more awkward, but Luke will realise that there’s something going on.

There’s no running from this anymore.

Slowly, reluctantly, she shuffles herself around.

He’s in a suit this time, hair slicked neatly back in professional custom and the stench of weed and alcohol perfectly veiled by an agreeable relish of cologne. It’s almost comical, the way his demeanour morphs from thoroughly bored to downright mortified. Weary, lifeless eyes widen to big, horrified sockets. Nostrils flare, lips part, shoulders hunch. It must’ve been what she looked like, only minutes ago, when Luke unwittingly dropped the bombshell on her. It must’ve been quite funny, as it is now, from a third-party perspective.

“Alright, introductions! Yes, introductions,” Luke sings. “Ben, this is Rey. Rey, Ben.”

Ben. His name is Ben.

In a desperate bid to protect Luke’s innocence, Rey extends a pointy, rigid hand to him, her arm as straight and stiff as a wooden plank.

Ben can only stare at it, stock-still, for the two seconds it takes him to fully process the revelation, before hurriedly taking it in his own. He clears his throat. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she returns shakily.

“So, Ben,” Luke pipes up, “since I’m ninety-five percent sure you haven’t read any of my emails, this is the senior analyst I’ve assigned to assist you with the machine learning project. Rey is very capable in this space. She’s one of my top analysts. I think she’ll leave you more than satisfied.”

Ben’s eyes grow infinitesimally wider at the unintended double entendre. “Great,” he chokes out, reminding himself to smile and nod.

“Yes. You two will be working very closely together,” Luke continues. “She’ll be under you the entire six months.”

Rey squirms. That’s two. She doesn’t think she can take any more innuendos.

“Well,” Luke says, tapping at the watch on his wrist, “looks like I gotta run. But do talk between yourselves, get familiar, get to know each other. Ben, make sure you run Rey through everything that’s to be done over the next six months. In fact, the sooner you catch her up to speed, the better. Just take her upstairs right now and really bang it out.”

“Please stop talking,” Ben deadpans.

Luke only laughs in clueless jest. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it, then. Any questions, just give me a ring, alright?” He claps a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Good luck.”

And with that, he departs, leaving behind two very scared, very helpless, young people, gazing after him longingly like his presence was the only thing saving them from eternal embarrassment and shame.

Tentatively, they meet each other’s eyes, the weight of a whole night’s worth of sex, conversation, and acquaintance laden between them.

Rey has no idea what will happen next. All she really knows is that she is well and truly fucked - in every sense of the word.


End file.
